Our Own World
by B2
Summary: Vignettes focusing on Karen Kasumi and Aoki Seichiirou. Created for 30Kisses community.
1. Superstar

Superstar

He stands uneasily, shifting his weight left to right. From time to time, he peers anxiously at the door, as if he could somehow penetrate the smoked glass and see inside. He checks his watch again – he has come too early – and adjusts his tie.

The door crashes open. He looks up to see a drunken couple stumble across the threshold. The woman laughs, the man grunts as he hangs onto her shoulders. The neon gleams along the folds and curves of her brief satin negligee, the planes and creases of his dark blazer. Under the awning the couple lurches to a halt. The man kisses her roughly, his hand grips her breast. When the man pulls away, the woman grins.

But he notices her pain.

He turns away, cheeks red and eyes full. He scans the placards, the coyly-smiling women dim behind old plastic and old lights.

He finds her there in the center, her placard larger than the rest. The word "Superstar" curls and glitters across her calves. She too smiles knowingly as she lies there on the bed.

He has never seen that smile.

Superstar, he repeats to himself wonderingly. He pictures again the pain and contempt in the eyes of that woman now, he observes, retreating into the club.

"Do you like that picture?" she asks him. He didn't hear her coming.

"I don't know," he replies truthfully. "I'm not really sure."

"Strange, isn't it?" she comments.

He hears the brittleness in her tone, though she speaks lightly.

"No," he says earnestly. He wants to tell her that he doesn't care; he neither pities nor condemns her.

"But?" she quips. He knows she hears the condition in his voice.

"Only," he begins. He leans toward her and takes her hand in his. "I wish there were no irony there."

She sighs, then smiles. "There isn't."

He shakes his head. "You're wrong, Karen-san," he says. "You just don't know."

She doesn't respond. Instead she gently frees her hand, gestures to the street. "Shall we go? We're running late; the others will be waiting."

He nods. As he hails a taxi, he sees the way the streetlight glimmers through her lowered lashes and glistens along the smooth coils of her hair.

"Karen-san," he says.

She looks at him questioningly.

"There," he says, pointing to her, "there is no irony."


	2. Gardenia

Gardenia

He prefers the scent of white sheets bleached by the sun, the smell of a sudden rain on baked pavement. He breathes deep the sharp smoke of autumn, the dusty honey of drying locust trees in summer.

He tells her this while he waits with her in the chapel before confession. She notes the heavy plumes of incense swaying in the air and smiles.

Simple but subtle, she remarks as she withdraws her rosary beads from her purse. She loops them carelessly around her wrist, the ebony strands sliding loose about her knuckles.

I suppose, he replies. They pause to watch a woman slip into the stall.

And you? he asks at last, turning to her.

She admits she has never thought about it. But, she adds, I'll think of it tonight and tell you when we next meet. Suddenly she smiles. Her eyes are sad.

He understands. They are both matter-of-fact and a little cynical.

The confessional door opens. She rises abruptly. Her rosary slithers off and clatters to the floor. They both stoop to retrieve it. Her shoulder grazes his cheek, the large flower on her jacket brushes against his mouth. For a few moments, he cannot sense anything but the silk of the petals, their sharp perfume.

He finds the rosary first. He offers it, the strands lacing his open palm. She mutely takes it and nods in thanks.

She begins to walk to the booth. He bends to pick up his coat. When he straightens, he sees her standing only a few paces away, her hand still clutching her beads.

I like the smell of gardenias, she says. She points to her lapel and smiles. Then she moves on and steps into the booth.


	3. Our Own World

Our Own World

The café is white, too white, she thinks. The walls, the drapes, the chair covers, the tablecloths, the china. Only the dark wood floor and the man opposite, she finds, relieve its blinding blankness.

An absence of all color, she murmurs through the steam of the teacup she holds before her chin, a void.

He frowns, perplexed, over the rim of his coffee cup. What? he questions.

This place, she explains. She sets her cup down with a clink, scans the room. It feels too stark, too empty.

Really? He takes a sip, makes a face, mouth pursing.

She hands him the sugar bowl. He murmurs his thanks. He reaches in with a pair of small silver tongs, fishes out two cubes.

I can't quite describe it, she goes on, but I feel strange sitting here. This place, she says, has the same quality of a winter field. She runs her index finger carefully along the rim of her cup, chooses her words. It feels, she admits, a little lonely.

He drops the sugar cubes into his coffee, stirs it with his spoon. He surveys the café, notes the waiter dozing at the counter and themselves, who had braved the heavy rain, the only people in the room.

Yes, he agrees, it's a little lonely here. But, he adds, I like this stillness. I like this quiet.

She says nothing, runs her finger along the teacup brim.

This place, he says, feels restful. It's a place without time, without self. He waves toward the sodden rush of traffic in the street below, the black mushrooms of umbrellas bobbing along the sidewalk.

A space, she suggests finally, averting her face from the window, away from reality.

Yes, he affirms. While we sit here, the world seems to stop for a little while. He turns to the window again, tucks his chin in his hand. And we can fancy ourselves, he murmurs, just for a little while, boundless and infinite.

She doesn't answer. She contemplates his profile, studies the fine lines of his brow, his nose, his chin. Beyond him, she realizes, above the hard rim of buildings, stretch the clouds.

Yes, she thinks, our own world.

And they sit together, silent, and watch the rain and afternoon fall.


	4. Perfect Blue

Perfect Blue

My daughter believes that there is only one perfect color for each and every thing on earth, he says.

Such as? she queries.

This apple, he replies as he draws one from his satchel. This yellow is the perfect color for an apple. He proffers it to her. She accepts and murmurs her thanks.

And this sky, he continues, sweeping his hand in a wide arc. This blue, he says, is the perfect color for the sky.

She follows his movement across the horizon. Not red or green or orange or yellow? she asks.

No. He laughs, lowers his hand. I had asked my daughter the same question but she insists that she's right. He laughs again. My daughter is very stubborn.

She joins him. But, she says once they stop, perhaps what your daughter says is true. She tilts her head back to face the sky. Her curls kiss the park bench.

He does the same. Together, they study the sky and trail the clouds, thoughtfully and gravely, oblivious to the shouts of children, the bark of dogs, the chime of bicycle bells.

Can you imagine the sky any other color but this? she finally says.

The sky at dawn, the sky at sunset, he counts off.

Imperfect colors, she decrees. The sky at dawn, the sky at sunset, she repeats. The colors of birth, the colors of death. The colors of beginning, the colors of end. Uncertain, changeable, and sad, she concludes. But this, she says, pointing up. Her hand touches the sky. This is sure and serene.

He studies the sky again, the blue edging the rooftops, the trees, her hand. Yes, you're right, he concedes at last. You're both right. It is the perfect color.


	5. Calcium

Calcium

They wait together at the train station. (Even though they take different routes, he insists on seeing her safely board the train.) She watches, amused, as he swings his satchel back and forth, switches it from hand to hand. The satchel bulges with papers and pens and highlighters, keys, perhaps a lunch box. The box, she imagines, would be cheerful plastic, a wide-eyed caricature on the lid. A gift from his daughter, she thinks, a joke from his wife.

When he swings the satchel high (nearly to his waist), she hears a tinny rattle. He notices the quizzical arch of her brow, grins. You're wondering what that is, right?

She nods. He frees the buckle, turns the flap. While he rummages through, she indulges in a smile.

He flourishes it before her. A tiny bright tin, similar to the lunch box she pictures.

And that is?

My pill box, he promptly answers.

Pills? You aren't sick, are you, Aoki-san? she asks, anxious.

Oh no. They're just calcium pills. He pries the lid, shakes two tablets onto his palm. Supposedly, these pills are good for people who are becoming old, growing, or lacking sun. He opens her fist, drops the pills on her palm. My wife and daughter think I don't get enough sun in the office, so they make sure I take them everyday.

She pictures his wife slipping the tablets into the tin, his daughter tucking it into a corner of his satchel. She considers the tin, the small family ritual, the pills in her hand.

Take one, he says.

She obeys. The pill tastes slightly bitter, feels chalky on her tongue. She puckers her mouth.

It's not very tasty, he apologizes. But, he adds, it's good for you; it will make your bones strong.

No, it's fine, she assures him. Thank you – and your family – for the pills.

You're welcome.

The train hisses alongside the platform. She waves to him, he nods in return. She stands at the window and waves again. The door closes. The train begins to move and a pillar soon eclipses him.

She uncurls her fist. The tablet sticks to her skin. She loosens it, tucks the pill carefully into her skirt pocket, and smiles.


	6. The Sound of Waves

The Sound of Waves

She meets him, unexpectedly, on the pedestrian bridge leading into Ueno. She hesitates, wonders whether she should greet him. But he immediately steps up to her, bows and shakes her hand, asks if she is well.

"Yes, thank you," she answers. "And are you and your family all well, Aoki-san?"

He nods, smiles. "Yes, we're all well. Thank you."

"It's been a long time," she remarks.

"A couple of weeks, right?"

"Yes. But then, there haven't been any incidents lately."

He agrees.

She notices the white plastic bag in his hand, the name of the store, in bold red characters, puckering near the handle. He smiles, shakes the bag. "I went to buy some dried cuttlefish on my way home," he explains. "It's a little out of my way, but I thought it would be nice to have."

"I'm sure your wife will like it," she assures him.

"You're on your way there yourself, right?" He motions to the other end of the bridge.

"Well, no, actually. I just like coming here."

"Really?"

"Yes. It's a little silly, I know," she laughs.

He shakes his head. "No, it isn't. But," he confesses, "I have to say I'm a little curious as to why you like coming here."

"I like the height of the bridge," she says, "and the sound of the traffic below."

"The sound of traffic?" he echoes.

"It's like the sea and the wind," she explains. "If you stand here and listen, you can hear them."

They lean over the railing. Beneath their feet, the cars streak down the freeway. The rush of their speed breaks upon them then recedes in the distance.

"You're right, Karen-san," he says. "I hear them."

They listen for a while longer, before they return to the center, face each other. He checks his watch. "I suppose I should get going," he says a little apologetically.

"Oh, yes! I'm so sorry to keep you!" She bows, embarrassed.

"No, don't be!" he tells her. "I really enjoyed our little trip."

"Trip?"

"Yes. Thank you for taking me there." He gestures to the freeway below. "It was nice."

She smiles. "I'm glad you liked it."

He bows and leaves. She watches him until he disappears from view. Then she turns to the railing and stares at the lights of the cars burning down the freeway.


	7. Jolt

Jolt!

They ride the subway together to the Diet Building. They stand next to each other, gripping the hand rings to brace themselves against the speed of the train.

There is no need, though, she thinks. Commuters cram the compartment, form a hedge around her. In the press, her shoulder digs into his arm. She looks at him with mute apology. He only shakes his head and smiles.

They ride without speaking. He stares at the ads lining the ceiling, pictures of beer in frosty steins, lipstick on pouting mouths. She listens to hiss of the train, the rustle of newspapers, and the low murmur of voices on cell phones. She closes her eyes and drifts along the current of sound.

The speaker clicks. A pleasant voice announces, "Next stop, Sakurada-mon. Next stop, Sakurada-mon."

The train slows. The other passengers begin to stir. The woman beside her bumps into her. She stumbles backward.

He steadies her, his hand on her elbow.

"Are you all right?" he queries.

"I'm fine," she assures him as she straightens. "Thank you."

The doors slide open. They step off together. He holds her elbow and guides her through the jostling crowd. He continues to support her until they reach the top of the stairs and the night. He releases her arm gently, motions to the street. She nods and follows him.

They hurry down the pavement, their heels clicking sharp in the chill spring air. "You must be cold," he notes as he eyes her light coat. "I'm sorry." He spots a sign. 20 m. "We'll get to the building soon," he promises her.

"No, I'm all right," she says. She presses her right elbow with her palm. "I feel warm."


	8. Red

Red

She comes to him, dressed in a coat the color of flame. She takes her station next to him, fronting the rink where people skate past them.

They talk, lightly, of recent events – the death of an enemy, the disappearance of a comrade. (They bandy devastation and bedlam about as other people would discuss weather and traffic.)

She leans against the dull gray stone of the wall, her hands deep in her pockets. (She reminds him, suddenly, of a tongue of fire upon a rough hearth.) He props himself against the low barrier, his elbows locked, arms straight and stiff. They survey the skaters wheeling past them on the ice.

This is all worth it, she murmurs softly. She gestures to the laughing children, the couple kissing beneath the streetlamp, the park, the city. It's not such a hard task to protect all this.

Do you live – do you fight – to keep this whole?

Yes. I have nothing else to protect.

She speaks without regret, without bitterness. You're very brave and generous, Karen-san, he says earnestly.

No, she argues, I'm selfish, really.

Then we're all selfish, he counters. All of us who fight to maintain this status quo are acting selfishly. We fight to prevent the end of the world, but really, we fight only to preserve our own narrow reality.

She agrees.

Still, he repeats, I think you're very brave and generous.

She shakes her head. I only want to keep safe what I love.

And that's enough, he asserts. That's more than enough.

She smiles. Somewhere, a bell tolls nine o'clock.

I'm sorry, but I have to go to work, she apologizes.

It's all right, he says. Take care.

They bow to each other. She walks away, her coat burning in the twilight. He watches her leave (thinks she is one of the noblest people he has ever met).

Then distance snuffs her out.


	9. Radio Cassette Player

Radio-Cassette Player

He stoops to the asphalt, reaches into a dark corner near the trash bin. She cranes her neck, watches as he pulls out a battered toy radio-cassette player.

He turns it in his hands (the machine the size of a lunch box), inspects the bright bubblegum color, the worn stickers (animals and hearts and flowers and kissing mouths) peeling at their edges. She notices a name scored in clumsy letters on the back.

He reads it aloud. Then: "I know it's a little strange to pick up junk like this. Only, this reminds me of my daughter. She has one like this in blue."

"Stickers and all?" she says seriously. (She will not tease him now.)

"Yes. Only she has stars and moons all over hers. I remember she put those kinds of stickers on because the color of the radio-cassette player made her think of the sky just before dawn, when the moon and stars go out one by one."

She gently takes the machine from him, studies the plastic. "I agree. It's the same color."

"I got it for her as a gift a while ago," he adds, somewhat irrelevantly.

"Does she still use it?" she asks.

"No. She's grown too old for it, I think," he answers. (She hears the slight sigh in his words.) "And," he resumes, "there are much better machines out there – MP3 players, CD players, cell phones." He laughs. "She has all of those."

"But," she says gently, "she still keeps this, right?" She proffers the radio-cassette player to him.

"Yes." He accepts it, smiles gratefully. "You're right. She has it on her dresser still."

He considers the machine, moves to set it down atop a trash bin. She leans over him, places her hand on the handle of the cassette player, presses a button. A song winds out from the tape in the belly of the machine.

They stand and listen to it for a moment. Then they set out again, the music following them down the street.


	10. Candy

Candy

She dislikes candy. She eats sugar cubes instead.

She tells him this with perfect equanimity, as if eating sugar was ordinary, common.

Candy, she explains, is tampered sugar. She takes a cube from the bowl, unwraps it. Sugar compressed and treated. She holds it up between her thumb and forefinger. The grains catch the light, sparkle. A sugar cube, though, she goes on, is pure.

He stirs his coffee thoughtfully. I never thought of it that way.

I didn't either, she admits, until recently. She sets the cube on the edge of her saucer. My friend's daughter, Kimiko, taught me that.

He laughs. How old is she?

She's six years old. Last week, she recounts, when I went to visit, I gave her a box of candy. She looked at it – so seriously! – and thanked me politely. So I asked her, 'You don't like that particular kind of candy?' Kimiko shook her head and said, 'I like sugar.' When I asked her why, she answered: 'Because it is pure.'

They laugh. She reaches into her purse, withdraws a cellophane bag tied with ribbon. I'm going to visit her tonight before work, she informs him. She shakes the bag, makes the cubes dance.

Kimiko will be happy, he says.

I think so, too.

She pinches the cube from her saucer, pops the cube into her mouth. Her lips purse briefly before they disappear beneath her teacup rim.

He smiles and pours himself another cup of coffee.


	11. Letter

Letter

She lays out a quire of stationery on her desk. She can cross the pages with words, she knows, crowd the wide margins, but still she would be too full.

She takes up her pen. I will tell him everything, she thinks. I want to tell him everything.

She writes one word in swift thin strokes: Dear. She stops, taps the pen against her pursed mouth, stares at the blank sheets.

He loves his wife, he loves his child, she thinks. He is happy. Happy. She mouths the word one, two times.

She takes the page, folds it into a small neat square, and burns it.


	12. Kiss

Kiss

He loves his wife, he thinks. He loves his daughter.

He looks down at the woman (his friend, his ally) he holds in his arms. She is dying, he knows.

(She likes sugar cubes, the smell of gardenias, the sound of traffic on the freeway.)

She is speaking. He can't hear her above the thunder of water, the crackle of electricity. He leans close to her mouth. He listens to her – she gives him her gratitude, her blessing.

He doesn't know what to say; she is, as usual, too generous, he thinks.

(She had once told him she loved the world – the midnight city, the couple kissing beneath a streetlamp. He remembers her hand sweeping out, halogen lights and ice skate blades caught in the lattice of her fingers.)

She reaches up and pats his cheek. He puts his hand over hers, tries to warm it.

She thanks him again. He can only hold her hand tighter.

(He remembers her hand against the deep sky, her curls against the park bench.)

He hears her voice falter, he sees her eyes dim.

She tries to smile, but it pains her, he knows.

(Her face, even when happy, had always looked wistful.)

He loves his wife, he thinks. He loves his daughter.

He loves this woman (his friend, his ally).

(This is not infidelity, he tells himself.)

He presses his lips against her forehead.

She smiles again and closes her eyes.


	13. Fence

Fence

She visits his office for the first time at 3:00 a.m. (They are the only ones on the floor; she hears the faint whir of computers, the creak of settling pipes, the rush of traffic in the streets.)

She waits by his desk as he rifles through the desk drawers and sifts through the papers on the desktop for the forgotten manuscript. As he lifts up a stack, he knocks down a frame. She reaches over to pick it up. She touches the frame briefly (her fingers leave a oily mark, like a kiss, on the glass), smiles, and carefully rubs away the dust and fingerprints from the glass and wood with her handkerchief.

"I'm afraid I'm going to be a while; I can't seem to find it," he apologizes. "If you don't mind waiting a little bit . . ."

"I'll be fine," she answers as she straightens, still holding the frame in her hands.

"Please sit," he says, waving to the chair next to him.

She nods. She gently sets the frame near the edge of the desk, takes her seat. She glances at the photo once more before she turns to the window.

His wife and daughter beam from the frame as he shuffles through papers and she studies the city below.


	14. Crane

Crane

"Say ah," he says as he zigzags the full spoon in the air. The baby opens her mouth and receives it. She gums the rice porridge down as he smiles approvingly. "Good girl," he says, kissing the top of her head.

He pauses a moment to look about the bright kitchen. His wife sits at the table, their eldest daughter beside her. They chat as they fold small cranes out of red and gold paper. A string of nearly a thousand cranes drapes a nearby chair.

He takes up a length of it, dangles it from his hand. The birds flash gold and red, like a flame.

We don't really need this anymore, he thinks. It's over now. He lays the string down, picks up a lone crane.

He glances over his family, the bright kitchen, the crane in his hand. He studies it for a moment then closes his eyes. He offers up a silent prayer of thanks to her.

He gently sets the crane down. He turns to his child once more, smiling, spoon in hand. He scoops up more rice porridge and loops the spoon in the air like a plane. Above her laughing gurgle, the murmur of voices and the scratch of paper against wood.


End file.
